


Underneath

by gingerteaandsympathy



Series: Unexpected [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, a light dusting of sexual content, flirting over text, some banter and some emotional intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy
Summary: in which Rose Tyler delivers on some promises and Malcolm Tucker finally watches Star Wars. Well, sort of.





	Underneath

**Author's Note:**

> (this fic has been edited as of 3/16/20.)
> 
> can you believe i'm still thinking about these two? me neither.
> 
> in other news, i think there will be five to seven of these little one/two-shots, and they're going to continue to be sporadically posted. but i want to get these two to a place where i'm happy with them (and they're happy with each other, dammit).
> 
> please enjoy and forgive any mistakes. what can i say? i'm a bad editor.

Rose spends the majority of the week waiting for the other shoe to drop. She fidgets with her phone, waiting for a text message to appear saying, “Hey, never mind about next weekend, you can fuck all the way off,” or some equally Tucker-esque rejection. But it never comes. 

Her days pass in the usual rhythms—sleeping later than she means to, alternately picking halfheartedly at and obsessing over her sewing project, lunches with Mickey or phone calls with her mum, and then work. She’s never had much to complain of before; it was, she thought, a pretty good life for a girl with no particular passions or talents or A-levels. But as the days go by, she finds herself growing impatient of it all.

She’s sitting outside with Mickey on Thursday—trying to enjoy some of the last vestiges of warm sunlight in this false second-summer—and he’s just said something about last night’s match when she suddenly starts. “Mickey.” Her gaze catches on the coins lining the bottom of the fountain they sit beside, and she swallows. “D’you think… am I… wasting my life?”

She isn’t brave enough to look up at him. She isn’t brave enough to explain herself either. She just sits quietly while the water arcs its journey and slaps endlessly at the pool below.

“Who told you that?” Mickey’s voice is full of thinly-veiled anger, and it draws her eye to him. His eyebrows are pulled together in that way of his, concern evident, already thinking about who he’ll have to pummel this time. He’d spent months regretting not breaking Jimmy Stone’s nose, and she’s sure she’s dragged him right back to that moment when she’d called him from a payphone, asking if she could borrow his car, her sniffles evident down the line. He’d nearly gone mad when he’d seen the bruises.

“Nobody,” she says hurriedly. “Really. Nobody. It’s just…” How does she explain? “Well, actually, I’ve met somebody.” It’s possibly the _ least _clarifying thing she could’ve said, but she’s in it now.

Mickey’s brows draw even closer together. “Rose, are you alright? You look… well, like you’re gonna chunder all over me.”

“I’m fine, honestly. It’s just—this bloke I met, he’s brilliant. Like, properly smart. But,” she waves her arm, “really, none of that’s the point. The _ point _ is that I work in a pub six nights out of seven, and… and I broke a needle this morning. Snapped it in half, like it was my first day with the machine. God,” she drops her head into her hands and groans. “I’m not making any sense, I know. But I used to love things, Mickey. Trying new things. I was rubbish in basically every subject but Home Ec, and now I don’t… _ do _ anything. I just go to work, leave work, eat chips, call my mum… it’s just _ nothing. _ It feels like _ nothing. _”

There’s a silence. And then, “And this bloke makes you feel like nothing?”

“No,” she answers, voice firm. “No, it’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

When she looks up at him, she sees the kids they used to be on the playground. Young and full of mischief. They’d had no hopes or plans then, either—just schemes to stay out late and plots that got them grounded. He looks at her the same way he did back then. He’s waiting for her to tell him what to do, how he can help. _ Sorry, Mick, _ she thinks. _ I don’t think you can get me out of this one. _

She sighs. Says, “He makes me want _ more_.”

-

On Friday, she texts him.

She texts him because she’s just broken _ another _ needle, and the slipcover for the bloody ugly couch is coming along a lot more slowly than she’d hoped, so she’s just sitting in her flat with her borrowed sewing machine, staring at a hideous heap of floral fabric, and if she doesn’t do _ something else, _she’ll lose it.

She very nearly loses it just trying to think of what to say. 

Nothing like, “Hey, it’s Rose,” because obviously, he _ knows _that already. Any overtures at smalltalk will probably be pitifully transparent—an offer to return the scarf he loaned her, her thanks for the ice cream, something benign like that will look ridiculous. Finally, she heaves a great big sigh and sends something she immediately regrets.

** _ saw you on telly this morning. you look like shit._ **

Rose drops her phone into her lap and lets out another groan, muffled by the fabric currently pressed to her face.

She isn’t _ like _ this—she _ knows _ she isn’t like this. She hasn’t lost her head over a boy since Jimmy, and she’s completely unprepared to go through the process again. But he’s not a boy, and she’s unable to evict him from her mind. Every time she lets her mind drift, she sees a dimple in a cheek; tired, red-rimmed eyes fluttering open and looking down at her; long fingers wrapped around her wrists. She’s bloody infatuated, and she can’t stand it.

The suspense doesn’t last. Her phone buzzes, and it’s him.

** Look in the mirror, sweetheart**

She rolls her eyes.

** _ don’t pull that shit with me._ **

** _ everyone else might think you’re an apparition that haunts the greater london area, but i know you’re skin and bone. _ **

** _ are you eating?_ **

After a few moments:

** Fuck off, you’re worse than my mum**

And then, and she can practically _ hear _the scowl:

** Yes, I’m bloody well eating**

And then, when her heart’s just finally begun to slow down, when her hands are steady around her mobile again, he says:

** “Cal” won’t stop talking about you**

For some reason, her heart starts racing all over again.

** _ that’s just cos i told him i know aquaman._ **

She smiles.

** _ look, i’m not gonna hold you to anything..._ **

** _ but if i can’t actually give him all these comic books, i’m gonna have to find a donation bin or something._ **

** _ my mum’s about to stage an intervention. she thinks i’m dating a student._ **

This time, Tucker takes longer to answer. Long enough that she puts down her phone and starts sewing again, so her hands have _ something _to do. The rhythm of the pedal under her foot and the whir of the motor are enough to distract her, but when her mobile buzzes, her attention is fractured.

**Maybe you should be. It would be nearer the appropriate age range**

** _that’s low._ **

** ** **It’s the truth**

** _you’re such a twat._ **

** ** ** _lucky for you, we’re not dating._ **

** ** ** _we just fucked once._ **

She hesitates before pressing send.

** ** ** _so, when am i coming over?_ **

-

Sunday is her day off, and the day they agree on. That is, it’s the day she tells him she’s available, and he reluctantly invites her over for the aforementioned comic book exchange. He appears to look forward to it about as much as he would a hostage exchange, based on the tone of his texts.

Tucker doesn’t send her his address. He sends a car for her instead, which makes her incredibly nervous until she realizes it’s basically just a ridesharing service. Apparently one he uses often, because the driver chatters her ear off the whole way there, going on about how he doesn’t see Tucker as much as he used to, and he hopes all the news isn’t getting him down, and surely he’ll bounce back. When she seems reticent to respond to _ that _conversational opening, he asks who she is, how she knows the family, and she politely hedges with something about being a babysitter. It’s better than “I have no idea.” As the driver babbles on, she wonders how Tucker—impatient and irritable as he is—copes. She closes her eyes and lets it wash over her.

When she pulls up to the house, it’s vaguely familiar, in the way that all relatively posh houses in London feel familiar. Like a television set piece, or like something she’d maybe seen in the background of a news story. She swallows. _ Probably the latter. _

She offers to pay the driver, but he just laughs and tells her to have a nice day. And then, steeling herself, Rose gets out of the car and approaches the house. It’s red brick and framed by tall hedges, hemming in a small courtyard, where the usual traffic noise is suddenly dampened. Instead, she can hear the faint sound of music, emitted from somewhere within. She passes a window, where a fluttery white curtain reveals the top of a head—just barely poking out—bearing wide blue eyes. 

_ Calum. _She grins, and waves, and the curtain falls back into place.

She pauses at the door. There’s a wreath hanging, fresh and autumnal against the burgundy paint. The whole place is disarmingly suburban, and she feels off-balance. She’s not sure why she’d expected Malcolm Tucker to live in some featureless, cement slab mansion. Or some haunted, Gothic standalone. But before she can raise her hand to knock, she hears a voice at the door. 

“Da! Rose’s here!” 

And then the front door swings open.

The smile that greets her is tentative, but the hand that instantly reaches to pull her inside is not. “Rose!” Cal says by way of greeting. “My dad’s making lunch, come eat with me!”

She doesn’t have time to protest, or even notice much of the house, as he’s already dragging her down the hall, around the corner, and into the kitchen, where Tucker…

Rose blinks.

Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, which is something of a relief, because she’s quite sure that a curse is seconds from flying out. The man himself glances over his shoulder. One of his hands is poised to slice diagonally through what appears to be a peanut butter sandwich, but he stops what he’s doing and looks over his shoulder. She knows she’s staring, but she can’t get ahold of herself.

His eyes shift from hers, to the smaller figure at her side. “It’s not ready yet, lad.”

Rose glances back at Cal, who seems very preoccupied with thinking about his lunch, and she reaches into her bag, withdrawing the goods: comics she’d gotten from Mickey’s collection. She hadn’t told Tucker the whole truth—there _ are _ more at her house, but she’d given them a once over, and found them far too… mature for a six-year-old, no matter how socially or linguistically advanced. She’d spent a few hours scanning the comics, grinning at the technicolor heroes and villains, and selecting ones she thought Calum might like best.

“Here, these are for you,” she says, handing the small stack to the boy, whose eyes are already alight with greedy curiosity. “I wasn’t sure which ones you have already, but my mate Mickey says these are some of his favorites. Why don’t you go look at them while I help your dad with lunch?”

He pipes out a quick and altogether unexpected “thank you” before darting into the living room, leaving Rose alone with Tucker and his stupid, distracting denim and his domestics.

Her stunned silence does not go unnoticed. “What?” he gripes, the knife swinging as he moves his hands in the air.

Wordlessly, she tries to pry her gaze away from him, and fails. Her eyes just sort of… drift.

Tucker glances down at himself and then, returning to his lunch preparations, rolls his eyes. “You must have a very fragile constitution if my every outfit change sends you into hysterics.”

“Sorry, it’s just—you’re wearing _ jeans._”

“Yes, _ and..._?”

"I've seen you probably a hundred times, at this point—in person, on telly, in my most gruesome nightmares. And you've never _ not _been in slacks." She struggles for a moment before explaining, “It’s like seeing Batman when he’s dressed in his Bruce Wayne clothes. It surprised me ’s all.” Tucker snorts.

Aside from the denims, he’s _ barefoot_. His hair is damp, like he's recently showered. He still looks thin, and very tired, but really, he looks comfortable—not to the point of being disheveled, but enough that Rose feels like she’s somehow stepped into a parallel world where Tucker isn’t an emotionally distant former political war machine. Where he’s just a normal man with normal clothes and a normal life.

Or maybe she’d got it wrong. Maybe he _ is _those things.

Maybe he’s both.

She has to change the subject before she says something about his bum—absolutely _ has _to, so she does a quick sweep of the kitchen for something to do. It’s an automatic mechanism, the impulse to keep her hands occupied. Left over from night after night at the pub, keeping the bar and her busy hands between her and the patrons. She finds herself opening the cupboards and withdrawing plates and glasses.

“Nice place,” she offers.

“Thanks,” he replies, his back still to her. “It’s a rental.”

“Right.” She’d forgotten the whole issue of him losing the house in the divorce. Her nose wrinkles, and she’s thinking that Fiona must be more ruthless than she seems. She tries to visualize the woman she’d met on the playground taking Tucker for everything he was worth, and she can’t quite manage it. Then again, Fiona's spotless, tailored coat hadn’t exactly looked secondhand.

“Well, you’ve certainly charmed Calum,” Tucker says, apropos of nothing. He appears to have begun fashioning another sandwich, and Rose makes for the fridge in search of squash or something to fill the glasses.

She shrugs, though she’s secretly chuffed. “He’s easy to please. Sneak a few extra scoops onto a cone, tell him you know Aquaman, you’re basically in. I can put in a good word for you, if you like.” And then, mumbling to herself, “Christ, your fridge is emptier than mine. You need a run to the shops.”

“Can’t exactly go myself, can I?” His voice is deceptively casual. “Not unless I want the papers discussing whether my fucking… aubergines are organic, whether my coffee beans are fair trade. That’s all I need. So, it’s gonna be takeout tonight, I’m afraid.”

She pauses, one hand around a juice carton. It’s nearly empty.

“Is it… is it alright that _ I’m _here?” She hates how hesitant she sounds and rushes to add, “Not, I mean… that I’m worried about myself. I just mean—for you. For Cal and Fiona.” As she begins to pour the juice, she swallows. “I didn’t have to come.”

Tightly, he answers, “They’re fine, Rose.” He turns and looks at her and she can’t tell what he’s thinking. “Anyway, you’re here now, aren’t you?”

Her stomach tightens. “I guess I am.”

-

She keeps expecting time with Tucker and his son to be stilted, but once they’re sat at the table, the conversation flows with an inexplicable smoothness. It’s like she’s stepped into their world and let it envelop her. 

Cal has much to say about his new comics, and Rose is nothing if not an attentive listener. Occasionally, she and Tucker exchange glances that shouldn’t be as knowing as they are. Her eyes keep catching on the twist of his lips, the amusement that pulls his eyebrows into strange shapes, the way he looks at his son with a gentle, steady attentiveness that she can’t imagine him directing anywhere else.

Calum has, during the course of the week, crafted an elaborate set of parallels between the characters he likes in his comics and the daily fixtures of his real life. He is, _ obviously_, the notorious Batman and Da, he says, is Bruce Wayne—Rose comes to understand that he hasn’t yet nailed down the concept of secret identities which, she thinks, is fair enough. He’s only just started reading with any proficiency, and he’s more interested in the drawings anyway. She can hardly blame him. They’re quite colorful.

He dubs his best mate, who is apparently called Jack, Robin, and a schoolyard bully—the name of whom brings a stern frown to Tucker’s face—is assigned the role of the Joker. All of this information is delivered with tremendous gravitas and enthusiasm, which culminates in the firm pronouncement: “And Rose, you’re Catwoman.”

One of Tucker’s eyebrows arcs, and he smiles around his glass.

“Catwoman!” Rose giggles. Her only frame of reference is a few pen strokes to indicate generous curves, and absolutely no indication of character. “What’s her superpower?”

This appears to stump the little boy. “I don’t know. She’s Batman’s friend, though.”

“Aye, they’re friends alright,” Tucker mumbles.

She bites down a laugh and kicks him under the table. “My superpower is being friends with you and your dad? That’s brilliant!”

“She’s got brown hair, though,” Cal continues, “and I think she’s a bad guy? But she’s got ears—like, cat ears—and a motorbike, and she’s really, really smart. And Jack says Batman makes her be nice to him. So, I think you can still be her.”

“You’re right,” Rose reasons, “I think I can manage that.”

Across the table, Cal’s father snorts.

“Da, I’m done,” the boy suddenly announces. It seems that the table and its accompanying adults have lost his attention.

“Alright. Plate in the sink. And,” he points a stern finger, “don’t turn the telly up too loud.”

Once Cal’s left the table and disappeared into another room, Tucker turns back to Rose and sees her grin. He rolls his eyes. She’s accustomed to that reaction now, and she finds it generates a strange little flip in her stomach. “What is it _ now_?” he protests.

“You really don’t like when people smile at you, do you?”

“No, I can cope with smiling; _ you _ just make faces like the Cheshire Cat ate a fucking canary,” he gripes. She shakes her head at his strange clash of similes. “So, what’s got you so jolly?”

She shrugs. “Cal’s great, that’s all. Like, _ weirdly _ great, you know? Very calm and mature and articulate for his age.” Tucker’s eyes have narrowed, and she waves him off. “Don’t look at me like that—it’s not like I’m _ surprised. _ And he’s very honest. And passionate about his interests. And about as subtle as a brick.” She hesitates before adding, “A lot like you, actually. I guess I’m saying that he’s lucky to have you.”

Over the course of her speech, Tucker’s eyebrows have been steadily rising, and he’s almost comical in how shocked he looks by the time she finishes. She falls silent, and he shakes his head. “You’re _ full _of it. I mean, take it easy, darling—there’s no tip jar here. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

She rolls her eyes. “And he gets his good manners from Fiona, I’m sure.” Tucker scoffs. “_And _ his looks.” This isn’t even dignified with a sound, only a look that lives somewhere in the vicinity of a glare. “And certainly his brains—those certainly came from his mother.”

“D’you want me to set you two up?” Tucker sweeps her plate out from under her as she takes the last bite of her sandwich, and she keeps her eyes on the table rather than on his retreating form. She won’t let herself look at the denims, won’t even let herself _ think _about the denims.

“No, thanks,” she calls, “she’s not my type.”

She hears the faint sound of a chuckle, and when he settles down at the table again, wine bottle and stemware in hand, she thinks she can hear him mutter, “not mine either.” Surprised, her mouth pops open for just a moment, before she catches herself. But he’s looking at her with a knowing, almost painfully grim smirk.

Rose knows instinctively that probing into the details of Malcolm’s failed marriage is ill-advised, but she can’t help herself. For one thing, she’s nosy by nature. She could blame it on being the child of Jackie Tyler—her almost chronic need to know and be known. But the truth is, she can’t help feeling like he deserves it. Needs it, even. Someone to care about the subtle things he mumbles under his breath. Someone who isn’t afraid to broach the subject. Who’s able—even _ willing_—to take the inevitable bollocking the questions inspire.

And for another thing, he looks far too fucking smug, and she can’t let it lie. 

She swallows, because the tilt of his lips is reminding her of dangerous things. Things that she doesn’t intend to repeat. 

That’s how she finds herself saying, “Not sure why. She does seem… frighteningly perfect.” Tucker’s eyes flicker to her, and it feels as though all the air has suddenly been sucked out of the room. This, apparently, is the point of no return. The point at which the night goes sour.

She briefly wonders why she can’t just flirt like a normal person. Why does she always _ push? _

The comment is neutralized with an arched eyebrow, and then Tucker sets to pouring her a glass of wine. “Nobody’s perfect, of course,” he says calmly, “but if anyone on this godforsaken earth could get close, it’s my ex-wife.” She ruminates on his strangely evasive, empty answer while her glass slowly fills. He’s still wearing that little disheartened half-smile that slices through her. 

The wine, she notes absently, is a _merlot_. She can’t see the vintage; his hand covers most of the label.

“I take it from your silence that you’d like me to open up about this?” Tucker’s voice is droll, but she can see the tension in his hand as he begins pouring wine into his own glass. It’s a conservative pour.

Tension she hadn’t known she’d been holding slowly drains out of her, and her grip loosens. There won’t be a repeat of the drunken confessions; as much as the prospect of mutual vulnerability appeals to her—and with him, it _ really _does—she isn’t sure she can take any major bombshells tonight.

She clears her throat. “I mean, if you’d like to. We’re friends, after all.” Hearing herself, Rose winces and titters out a vague laugh. “That sounded… very lame, actually.”

He nods. “It really did.” And then, before she can take offense, he adds, “You seem anxious. Does this unnerve you?” She’s not sure what _ this _is—being in his home? Prompting him to talk about his ex over a glass of expensive wine? Their entire relationship? As her mind races, he’s eyeing her over the rim of his glass with those stupid, penetrating blue eyes that she’s sure can see right through her, waiting for her answer.

“Sort of,” she admits, realizing it for the truth only as she says it. She’s normally got a thicker skin than this. Years working behind a bar and rebuffing men on a nightly basis should keep him from sliding right under her skin like he belongs there.

She blames the jeans. The vulnerability. The glasses sitting on the coffee table. The methodical rhythm of the knife as he sliced sandwiches for three. The wine. Calum’s face in the window. It’s all too much.

“Is it the sex?” He asks this before taking a long, slow sip. Her mouth is dry.

“No,” she replies, still opting for honesty. “I’m used to compartmentalizing.” She conveniently forgets to add the part where she’s never done it _ successfully. _Her "friends-with-benefits" attempt with Mickey had been one hell of a failed experiment, and retaining his friendship afterwards had taken more heavy lifting than she liked to admit. Then again, it had certainly prepared her for the unpaid emotional labor she did at the pub.

But it isn’t the sex—in their past or, she can’t even let herself think it, their future—that’s got her on edge. It’s _ him_.

Tucker smirks again. “You want a repeat performance, then?” It feels strange, leering, designed to put her off her guard. And then there’s the small matter of the way she might actually drown in his gaze. It’s a million miles deep, and just as dark, and her breath feels short.

With narrowed eyes and a very conscious attempt to slow her heartbeat, she states, “So, I take it you _ don’t _want to open up about your marriage.”

His smirk transforms, blooms into a smile that crinkles at the edges. Everything about him shifts, and she can breathe again. As she takes a steadying drink from her glass, Calum appears, socks sliding along the floor. “Da, has Rose seen _ Star Wars_?” His eyes are wide, dancing back and forth between the two adults.

Rose swallows her wine. It tastes like oak and black cherries and not at all like daytime with peanut butter and sandwiches. She’d wince if it wasn’t so damned delightful tasting.

Tucker, noting Rose’s silence, glances over at his son and his brow furrows. “Is that the one with the… the tinfoil robot? And the big teddy bear that looks like he’s in a hair band?”

“Chewbacca?” Rose replies, entire face crunched in concern. _ Does he really not know? _

Calum sighs, and he sounds very put-upon. “_Yeah_, Da. You _ know._”

When Rose cuts her eyes at Malcolm, he’s hiding his grin. The bastard.

“I’ve seen them,” Rose answers Cal, ignoring the smirking man beside her. “D’you wanna watch them?”

The young boy’s entire face brightens. “Yeah! It’s my last night with my dad and we used to go to the cinema on last nights, but…” His voice fades as if he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to say. He settles on, “well, it’s the zombies, y’know.”

Rose nods agreeably. “I do.”

“Da, can we watch them?” Cal asks as he rocks on his heels. 

Tucker’s eyebrows arch in a show of surprise and dismay. “There’s more than one?” 

Piqued, Cal mumbles, “Da, come _ on._”

Rose can’t stop her chuckle, but at Calum’s behest, follows the boy into the living room, where he intends to show her how to use the DVD player. He speaks to her patiently, if a touch patronizingly, and she half expects the little Malcolm in miniature to call her “darling.” Instead, he grabs her hand. 

She glances up over the couch, and Tucker’s staring right at her, looking infuriatingly inscrutable. “It’s ready,” Cal pronounces to the room at large. Tucker stands at his son’s summons.

On the sofa, the boy squishes himself between his father and Rose.

“Comfy?” Rose asks.

He nods. She doesn’t see Tucker’s smile over his son’s head, but she can feel it. She can feel it.

-

Rose can only catch the bags under his eyes in certain lights now—dim shadows cast in the blue light of the television set, faint smudges that would be imperceptible to someone less studied in the many shades of Malcolm Tucker. Calum's head rests on his dad's chest, rising and falling evenly, and she watches as Tucker's eyes gradually drift shut, his head lolling to the side. Sleeping in his glasses will surely give him a headache. But she's loath to wake him.

After a few more moments, Cal starts to look tired himself, and Rose assumes it's long past his normal bedtime. The little boy's eyes are glazed over and he doesn't seem to be following the ins and outs of Luke Skywalker's story with any particular clarity, so she reaches for him. "C'mon, Cal, shift," she whispers, scooping him up into her arms. He's heavy, and his cheek is warm on her shoulder. "Off to bed."

He mumbles something inaccurate about "not being tired yet," which Rose ignores. Instead, she gives a gentle hush into his hair and carries him upstairs. She's grateful for the large cardboard C that hangs on his door as she ambles down the dimly-lit hallway. She nudges it open with her foot and finds a homey, cluttered little room, littered with comic books and toys shaped like various construction vehicles. In the relative darkness, she makes her careful way to his bed and sets him in it. She debates waking him up enough to brush his teeth, but he seems to have settled into a doze that she doesn't want to disturb.

Despite herself, she whispers, "G'night, Cal," before creeping back downstairs.

When she reaches the bottom of the stairs and rounds the landing, Tucker still appears to be asleep. His eyes are closed, anyway. The sight floods her with a warm familiarity.

_ “So, you _ do _ sleep with your eyes closed, just like the rest of us mortals.” _

_ "Who said I was sleeping?” _

She begins to clear away the remnants of their takeout, pouring herself another glass of wine to steady her hands, stacking dishes in the sink, walking on tiptoe and endeavoring to navigate in the low light. She thinks she’s doing a good job of it, but when she returns from the kitchen, Tucker has shifted upright and is looking at her, blinking sleepily. When he speaks, it’s low and a bit hoarse. "Is Calum in bed?" 

She nods an affirmative. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Never you mind," he replies, his voice barely a whisper. "I want to find out what happens to our friend Vader."

Rose settles next to him on the couch, her stocking feet pulled up, legs crossed at the ankles. She glances at Tucker sidelong. "Please don't tell me this is _ actually _ your first time seeing _ Empire_."

"Fine," he shrugs. "I won't. Anyway, I already know the twist. He's his father or some shite."

"Christ, for such a connected man, I could swear you've been living under a rock. I mean, where have you _ been _for the last twenty years?" Rose shakes her head in disbelief, which draws a chuckle out of him, honest and husky. A smile splits his face and she once again feels like all the air has drained out of the room.

"In the office." His reply is light, but she can feel all the things he's not saying lurking just beneath the surface.

"Do you think you'll go back to it?" 

She doesn't know why she asked, except that she desperately wants to know what's coming next. For him. Maybe for her, a little. She's not sure why it matters, but it does. Her hands tighten around the wine glass.

His eyes flick to her, and they're unnaturally blue in the light from the telly. Glowing. He's taken off his glasses. He says, "I don't know. They offered. I walked out, but they'll probably offer again." Silence falls between them. "I mean, you've seen the news. It's a fucking disaster over there."

She can’t admit that when it’s not his face on her telly, she changes the channel. She has no clue what kind of a shitshow he’s referring to, and she doesn’t _ care. _ She’s just concerned, because the tension in his jaw says he’s truly considering returning to the hellhole that he was so brutally and unceremoniously ejected from. And if he goes back, what then? Do they go back? Does she get shoved back behind the bar, _ compartmentalized_?

But no, she's being selfish. 

So she nods. "You shouldn't go back," she offers, and even she’s surprised she’s brave enough to say so. It doesn’t seem to be what he expected either, so she hurries to continue. "I mean, you should do _ something, _because I've never seen a man look so tired while not working. You're, like, actively stressed out by not doing anything, which is barmy, but… but you shouldn't go back to that job, Tucker."

She feels trapped, just then, in his gaze. It's inscrutable and yet, there's a serenity in it. She finds herself shifting, sitting on her knees. Her denims whisper against the couch as she moves towards him.

"You're quite demanding, you know," he says, more gently than she expects.

Her face has drawn closer to his, pulled by his expression and the shape of his lips and the sheer fact that there's no good reason not to, except for the million reasons she's keeping firmly stowed in the back of her mind where they can't distract her. "You like it," she whispers, tongue touching the corner of her smile. His eyes drop to her mouth. "You've spent twenty years telling people what to do, and you need a break." She shifts, body moving as if on strings. Her glass is deposited on the coffee table. Her leg drapes over his, bracketing him between her knees, and she hovers over him, wondering exactly what the hell she's doing. She can feel the warmth of him through her jeans. They're not touching, but she's aware of the space he holds between her legs.

"Anyway, I'm only demanding that you be happy." She leans down closer, her words brushing against his mouth. "Be happy, Tucker."

He doesn't say no. He doesn't say anything. He just looks up at her like he can't understand her at all, and a little like he wants to shut her up. And so, she kisses him.

She's aware of what she's getting into this time—no headache or hangover—which means she can truly appreciate the slow, easy pressure of his mouth on hers. He moves as languidly as he did in her bed just a few weeks ago, and it makes her squirm.

His lips are warm and steady, as are the hands that slowly travel up her legs. She lets out a pleased hum as his palms press hot indentations into her thighs, and then a shiver as they wind around her waist. It's all smooth, soft motions that build into an ache, a lurking tenderness that she won't—_can't_—express.

A fanfare of blasters flies around the living room, but she doesn't really hear it. She can only hear the creak of the couch, the slide of his hands over fabric, the sound of his breath as he pulls his mouth away.

"Is this really what we're doing?" She can hear the arch of his eyebrow, even if his face isn't performing the action, and it makes her grin.

"Snogging on your sofa like teenagers?" Rose finds her lips chasing his, and she presses a kiss at the corner of his mouth. She has to tear herself away to look at him, eyebrows rising. "Yeah, basically. Is that a problem? Or are you too old for fun?"

"Careful, sweetheart," he mumbles before lunging up to kiss her again. It’s like a mantra. The words stoke the fire that’s been burning for the past two weeks, the memory of his hands and his mouth and every dangerous thought she’s had since he left her bed.

They stay like that on the sofa for quite some time. She can't be sure how long. Slowly, as her legs tire, Rose's hips lower until she's seated on his thighs. And then closer, up against the zipper of his trousers. A rhythm builds up like it did a week ago, with shocking ease—a push-pull that sends her rocking forward into him, finding a friction that inevitably sparks. She feels young and stupid and like she's sneaking around again, making out in cinemas and on old couches, and it shouldn't feel so electric, but it does. She grips his hair because she knows he likes it, and rolls her hips because she can’t help it. Tucker makes a muffled noise into her mouth, and she feels euphoric.

It's only his hands, eagerly gliding down under the waistband of her trousers, that pull her back down to earth again. He's trailing along the hem of her knickers with a feather-light touch, and she pulls away long enough to say, "We can't shag on your sofa." She sounds breathless to herself, and she knows he notices it.

In the background, credit music is playing. Neither of them really hear it.

"Who said anything about shagging?" He grins, a slow, lazy thing that feels more relaxed than she's ever seen him look. She wants to kiss it, hold it in place, never let that indolent, self-satisfied expression leave his face.

She tries. With her mouth and the weight of her whole body, she tries.

But he's a man on a mission, because sitting still isn't in his nature. Even as her tongue dances around his mouth, he’s moving. She hadn't realized her zipper had given way, but his hand slips into her knickers without so much as a fumble, and then she's huffing out a weak moan. "Fuck." It gets lost in the sound of an orchestra playing, and she's grateful.

The sensation of his clever fingers making swirls and patterns is almost enough to distract Rose from the strange familiarity of this moment. Him, fully dressed beneath her, focused on bringing her off. Her eyes flutter open only to find that he's looking at her in intense concentration. His tongue is at the corner of his mouth. He looks focused, frustratingly put-together.

When he locks eyes with her, he smirks. Her face is too shadowed for him to see her dreamy and dilated eyes, and he probably can't hear the reckless hammer of her heart in her chest, but he can certainly feel that she's wet against his fingers and he can hear her ragged breathing, and for some reason, she thinks, _ enough. _

Rose looses her grip on him, takes his wrist instead. Tugs. "Malcolm," she says, with more confidence than she feels. "Take me to bed. Properly." Behind her, the film has faded to black. All around her is silence.

She gets up, and stands, and waits. But not for long. It isn't really a decision for either of them, so much as an inevitability. He nods. It's only a matter of moments before he's leading her to his bedroom, muttering something about “if I wanted to be bossed around, I’d go back to work,” but there’s no real venom in it. His hand is hot in hers, his fingers slightly sticky. A blush builds and spreads over her chest, because she knows _ why. _

He practically pushes her onto the bed, and sets about removing her clothes with brusque determination, helping her shrug out of her shirt, deftly unhooking her bra, all but tearing her out of her jeans. He does it all in an inelegant rush, determined to strip her so that he can—

When his fingers slide over her knickers again, she gasps. His eyes are on her, hungry for each reaction. He can't take his eyes off of her. It's an affirmation he needs, the vocalization of her wants, because he needs the control, and she can't help but give it to him. It feels like moving backwards, undoing what she'd been trying to accomplish from nearly the moment they met, but she can't bring herself to stop it.

He's hovering over her now, his thin shirt scraping over her sensitized skin much like the cotton of her knickers creates a continued, unbearable friction. Impatient, her hands scrabble at his belt, and once that's accomplished, at his zipper. "C'mon," she huffs. "Please." But Tucker makes no move to remove the trousers. His mouth seems to be otherwise occupied with its journey to her breasts, a meandering and slow trip. She wonders if there will be bruises again, like last time.

She hopes so.

With a final burst of clarity, she pushes at the waist of his trousers. "Off," she demands, or tries to demand. "Last time gave me carpet burn."

Tucker shakes his head and whispers, "Well, we can't have that. God forbid I leave a mark." She can hear the laugh hiding within the statement, a shared secret. Tucked under her hair. Between her breasts. A memory. Warm, and delicious.

Reluctantly, it seems, he backs off the bed and removes his trousers. His eyes are avoiding hers, and she doesn’t know how to comfort him. She can't see much—it's dim, and most of him is hidden under the horizon of the duvet. But when he crawls back up her body, her legs cradle him immediately and her hips rise, a desperate attempt at creating more friction. She wraps her arms around him, trailing down his back, and she would feel strange and wrong for clinging, only he's leaning into her, grinding his hips, giving as good as he gets. She manages to whisper, "I also have an ulterior motive for getting your trousers off."

"Oh, do you?" He sounds a bit winded, and she can't help but smirk.

"Mhm." Her hands drift. "You've got a spectacular bum."

He chuckles, hushed in the hollow space of the room. It’s a strange and emptied sound. "Noted." His sentences are shortening along with his breath, and the world around her seems to shrink, too. To his teeth, scraping along her neck. To the weight of him on top of her. How can it be so familiar after only one time?

Beneath her hands, she feels soft cotton and the heat of his skin beneath, and she's nearly giddy with the intimacy of it.

_ I'll get past these fucking layers yet, _ she thinks rather wildly. Her fingers slide up under his shirt, seeking the skin of his back, but he removes them—instead, pulls her hands up over her head. _ Eventually. _

His kisses descend like a downpour, unrelenting in their intensity. His free hand roves over her, never lingering, never staying. It's perfect, and it's infuriating. But she's gotten his trousers off, which feels like something, so she lets him have his way. He nips and licks his way down to her knickers and removes them, seeming offended by their continued existence.

She tries to keep quiet, thinking guiltily that they aren't in her flat anymore. They're in _ his _space, and she's determined to respect it. But when he pushes into her, hot where she is already burning, she's lost. She is no longer aware of what she says. It's just… him, and them, and now.

"Malcolm," she whispers, in a voice that can't be her own. "Fuck. _ Malcolm. _"

He groans when he finishes. She could swear it's her name.

-

He’s still awake, and she can feel it.

She isn’t usually tired after sex, but in her experience, men are. Only Tucker would manage to look more tense than he had at the beginning of the night. When she rolls onto her side, his eyes are moonlit, wide open, and his arms are crossed over his chest. In a different world, he’d probably be sliding on his specs and turning on the bedside lamp to sort through paperwork. But he’s presently filled with tension, and nowhere for it to go.

She doesn’t know what to say, but she wants to say something. She takes a slow breath, and then—

“Out with it.”

She huffs a laugh. “How could you tell?”

“You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle,” Rose protests in a whisper. “I was trying to figure something out.”

His eyes slide over to her, and she can’t help but notice the way he unconsciously turns toward her. “Alright, Nancy Drew. Let’s have it.”

She doesn’t say anything, because what she wants to know can’t be asked in words. Instead, she carefully slides across the space between them, and slides her hand over his arm. He huffs, not necessarily unamused, though clearly uncomfortable. “What is this, fucking touch therapy?”

“An experiment,” she corrects. His arm is tense beneath her. As her fingers slip over his skin, she notes the hollows inside of his elbows, the more prominent veins and tendons, gooseflesh where it rises, the smooth skin of his wrist, and then, as if coming home, her palm whispers against his. Fingers interlock. She tries not to think about how ruthlessly right it feels. “You know I don’t want anything from you, right?”

His eyebrows arch. “Nothing at all?” His voice would be caustic if it wasn’t so low and tired.

She shakes her head, hair crinkling against his pillowcase. “Nope. I’m not out for power or control or five minutes of fame. I’m not interested in getting some sort of… political foothold.”

“Well, I should hope the hell not,” Tucker snorts. “You’re not even sure if you’re registered Labour, for fuck’s sake.”

Undeterred, she continues. “I’m also not interested in money. Blackmail is exhausting, and I’m _ terrible _at receiving gifts graciously. I’m not here for the drama, or the intrigue. Really, I’m not interested in anything you can give me, except maybe orgasms. And,” she adds, her lips twisting in amusement, “I can usually give those to myself, anyway.”

“I’d like to see _ that_,” he comments drily.

“Don’t change the subject.” But she can’t help but smile, and she feels a flush build on her cheeks at the mental image he presents. She squirms. Beside her, he chuckles, and her hand tightens reflexively. “The point is, you were right. When you said… before, that I was bored.” She inches closer, her leg nudging against his. “I’ve always been the sort of person who went with the flow. I make friends pretty easily, and obviously, I’ve got my job where I’m basically an under-dressed and criminally underpaid therapist. I’m used to hearing the secrets and confessions men make when they’re too pissed to remember what they’ve said. Sometimes, secrets can be terribly boring.” Her head makes its way to his chest, and when she rests against him, she can feel his heartbeat. Slow and steady.

She takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “You’re not boring, or predictable. I like you, because you’re interesting, and kind of an asshole, and also probably one of the better people I know. You don’t treat me like a drunken last resort, even when,” and here, the wryness comes through her tone, much as she wishes it wouldn’t, “I’m pretty sure I am. And that’s basically the beginning and end of it. I just like being around you.” _ Under you, _ she thinks. _ On top of you. _She swallows. “Being your friend. That’s all. I don’t want anything.”

She feels his arm, finally slack under her touch. Her thumb brushes his wrist, and he doesn’t stiffen. His breathing is even. She leans up and in and kisses him, and she watches his eyes flutter shut. She can just barely make out the pale blue veins, the ghostly blur of his eyelashes. It’s all startlingly vulnerable, and she feels a small sense of relief.

When she pulls away, more because she needs to breathe than because she wants to, his eyes remain closed.

“My marriage was political,” he says, after a while, eyelids fluttering but not lifting. His voice is like gravel, and it cuts at her silly, compassionate heart. “I mean, we got on. We still do, mostly. But she was never really my type. It was just a decision that we made as young professionals, sharing a common goal. And don’t,” he says, lifting a finger to press against her lips, which still hover close to his, “laugh. Yes, I was young once, and yes, my hair has been gray for the majority of my life and yes, I did use the silver fox look to pick up unsuspecting waitresses with daddy issues. I don’t want to talk about it.” His eyelids flutter again, as if he wants to open them. She smiles against his finger.

“Fiona’s a smart woman. About a year ago, she figured out that she’d ridden this caravan about as far as it would go. I was negligent, and abrasive, and all the things I normally am, only it wasn’t fucking worth it anymore, because I was also tanking my career by making more stupid decisions than one person should reasonably be able to make given the limitations of linear fucking time and the twenty-four hour day cycle. So, she left.” He takes a steadying breath. “It’s not her fault she got the house, or the better custody agreement. It was all in the prenup. And it’s my fault for assuming that a decade of marriage would actually mean something to a glorified business partner who I’d shorted on my end of the deal. But hell if it didn’t hurt.”

Her mind tries to reconcile her image of Fiona with the image Malcolm is projecting, and the full scope of it comes together almost too easily. The refined woman, with her clean white coat and her gentle amusement.

_ “...there were tears in his eyes, when he looked down at our baby. I thought, maybe he'd been right. Maybe this would fix it all—the job, the marriage, the world.” _

_ The hawkish look in her eyes as she’d said, “I spent six years trying to get his guard down, you know, and I'm still not sure I ever managed it. Only ever got as far as his fly. Maybe you’ll get further than me.” _

Rose wants to hate her for him, but she can’t. She’s in possession of the facts now, and the truth is, they weren’t meant to be together in the first place. Their flawed communication skills—the necessity for a barrier between them, the terse and businesslike way they interacted—had probably been their downfall, long before either of them stopped trying to love one another. It would break her heart, if it hadn’t led her right here, to sharing a bed with someone she really, actually liked.

She wonders if Fiona had beaten herself up against him and that was why Rose was able to seep in through the cracks. Or maybe the fissures had come from something else—the constant brutality of his job, the single night of vulnerability, the change in the weather. Either way, she felt strangely grateful to the woman who had come before her. Despite that chilly warning._ “I don't think you ought to waste your life trying. You're still so young, and much too kind.” _

“She loved you,” Rose says softly. “She told me as much. But I understand why it ended. I’m sorry.”

His eyes finally flutter open, and they’re bottomless for a moment before he blinks all the tension away. “I’ve had some weird nights, but this is undeniably fucked up pillow-talk,” Tucker sighs.

Her answering laugh is faint. 

“We should probably be quiet then.”

He nods and the motion is brusque, even as his hand gently cradles her cheek. “I’ve a better use for your mouth.”

The kiss sparks and catches, drawing her body inexorably closer to his, until she feels the heat of his chest and the weight of his hands. She forgets the clothes, the layers, the space between them.

For a moment, she nearly feels as if that space doesn’t exist.


End file.
